


Standing Right Next to You

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Phil/Clint This is Fear Universe [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate History, Bad guys, Good Guys, M/M, Sokovia Accords, Superhero Registration Act, What-If, alternative universe, phil coulson college professor, phil coulson superhero, shadow heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 22:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14602650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: Phil Coulson, a professor at Georgetown University, writes about the history of the superhero accords and the founding of SHIELD.  When a handsome mystery writer asks for some help, Phil's world is about to get upended.This is first in what is going to be a series of one shots in this universe.





	Standing Right Next to You

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine a world where Steve Rogers' actions in World War II triggered superhero registration and accords. Those with powers and abilities could either register with their Governments and the newly formed Super Hero Intercession Enforcement and Leadership Division or find themselves forced to take inhibitors or hide in the shadows. By the time Rogers comes out of the ice, the superhero world is divided into three parts: the good guys, SHIELD, the bad guys, HYDRA, and those in the Shadows. Or at least that's what most people think. Some, however, are determined to find the truth.

  
  


“After the League of Nations drafted the first superhero accords in 1941, all those with abilities, either internal or external, were offered positions working with the multi-country task force.  The fear of uncontrolled superhumans was tempered by President Franklin Roosevelt’s famous ‘One of Us’ fireside chat.”

 

Phil clicked to the next slide and started the clip.  Grainy footage filled the screen, the scratchy audio crackling as Roosevelt spoke.

 

“These are trying times when much is asked of us … all of us. Fathers and sons, wives and mothers, we require no less of them than we do those with abilities. We are all the same; we fight to protect our way of life …”

 

He tuned out the rest of the speech, having heard it so many times before.  Instead, he perused the students in the late afternoon lecture hall. A few were taking notes, scribbling on paper or typing on the their laptops. Others were listening intently while some tried to hide their cellphones under the desk so they could text or surf the internet.  Heads halfway down, the usual sleepers, the glazed eyes, and zoned out looks. A few actually watched, interested in what the ex-President was saying.

 

Up in the very back, the last seat in the row, sat a man Phil had never seen before. Spiky blonde hair,  ratty AC/DC t-shirt, and impossibly blue … no green … no grey … eyes that stared at Phil, not the video. He was older than most of the students, although it wasn’t unusual to have a few who wanted to change their circumstances pop up on his roll. But this guy didn’t seem that type; if anything, he seemed to far too aware of the exits and windows and those around him.  

 

By the time the lecture ended, Phil had rejected the idea that he was a government agent; they wore bad suits and couldn’t blend in at an FBI convention.  Nor was he SHIELD or HYDRA; either would have come to his office when he was alone rather than in a target rich environment of the classroom. He was no closer to figuring it out when the man slowly unfolded from the tiny seat and descended the steps to the podium.

 

“Professor Coulson?” He stopped by the edge of the battered metal desk, humor flickering in his eyes. “Hope you don’t mind I sat in on the lecture; I meant to wait outside but the topic was so interesting.  Your take on the Wiseman amendment is refreshing; I’m used to hearing Dr. Sitwell argue for a strict constitutional interpretation.”

 

“Jasper does have his blinders on when it comes to the United States’ willingness to compromise with HYDRA ideology.” Phil dumped his gathered books into his leather satchel. “You’re one of his students?”

 

“Sort of.”  He motioned Phil to go ahead of him up the steps.  “Mostly I’m a writer who loves history and likes getting the details right.  That’s why I’m here; I’m looking for some insight on a side figure from 70s era SHIELD.  You literally wrote the book on Peggy Carter’s departure from agency she started, so I hope you can point me in the right direction.”

 

Phil used the distraction of finding his keys to stay put; he knew all the authors who published in his tiny area of history and this guy wasn’t one of them. “I’m always happy to talk about my favorite subject; are you working on a biography with the person at the center?”

 

“Actually,” the guy shrugged his muscular shoulders and Phil tracked the way the movement made his biceps clench. “It’s a murder mystery, a new series I’m starting. Been working in the 1770s around the revolutionary war, but I want to shake things up a bit.  Plus, Matonabbe really grabbed my attention; half-Chippewa, super strong, and giant sized mutant ends up a sideshow attraction in the carnival circuit? What a detective he’d make!”

 

“Wait.” Phil stopped, eyed the man from head to toe once, then did it again. “1770s detective?  A whole series? Are you talking about …”

 

He had the grace to blush. “Yeah, the Elizabeth Revere mysteries. That’s me.”

 

“You should have led with that,” Phil laughed.  “I’ve pretty much read everything you’ve written. Always wondered why you didn’t keep going with Charles Brandon; such a fascinating person and a great time period for political intrigue.”

 

“I get asked that a lot.” He offered his hand.  “Clint Barton, nice to meet you.”

 

Calloused fingers and roughened palm were warm in Phil’s hand. “So, you want to know about Sam Matonabbe? I don’t know all that much but I might be able to point you in the right direction.  I need to check my notes, see what I’ve got. Unfortunately, I’ve got a department meeting in …” he checked his watch “... seven minutes then a four o’clock class.”

 

“Right, of course,” Clint stepped back. “I’m heading over to check in at the Library of Congress, get a carroll set up, and start some search parameters.  Maybe we could grab some dinner, say 7ish?”

 

“Dinner.” Phil managed to keep a squeak out of his voice. “Sure. That’s a good idea.”  He paused, cleared his throat. “You like pizza?”

 

* * *

 

“Tell me you’re not wearing that on your date?” Melinda eyed his rumpled button-up and his plain khakis.

 

“It’s not a date.” Phil tucked in the tail of his shirt. “He’s a writer after information.”

 

“One of your favorite authors asks you out to dinner; it’s a date.” She passed Phil a comb. “At least be sure and wear your glasses; they highlight your eyes.”

 

“I doubt he’ll notice.” He picked up his tablet and headed for the door.

 

“Like you didn’t notice his biceps? Or his blue-grey eyes? Ummmmm.” Melinda swatted him on the shoulder. “It’s a date, Phil. Go have some fun; how long has it been since you spent a night out? You work too hard.”

 

Phil didn’t laugh; if Mel only knew. “Hey, I like what I do.”

 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She pushed him out of the office.

 

Buying a house near campus had cost a pretty penny, but Phil loved being able to walk the six blocks to the little victorian gabled cottage. It gave him time to think, to leave behind the stresses of work; strolling along the residential street complete with Mrs. Johnson’s rose bushes and ten minutes of welcome back from the Andrews’ dog Max relaxed Phil and reminded him that there was life outside of work.  

 

Keying in the security code, he dropped his battered leather briefcase by the table and tossed his keys in the Viva Las Vegas bowl.  Catching a glimpse of himself in the the mirror, he saw a tired man with a wrinkled shirt and thinning hair. Who was he kidding, he wondered as he walked the hallway to the bedroom.  He wasn’t getting any younger, and his life was a mess of responsibilities that demanded most of his time. What would a handsome guy like Barton see in him?

 

As he passed the clear LED screen, he stopped, took a deep breath, then tapped it with his finger.  With his luck, screaming red messages would appear and he’d have to send a text to cancel. Maybe that would be for the best; nip any possibility of dating in the bud, before his crazy schedule did it for him. But the icon stayed a solid green, and Phil had no reason not to change into a soft grey sweater and a pair of comfortable jeans.  Even that was too dressy for Gino’s but it made him look more professorial, if that was possible.

 

He second guessed himself the whole fifteen minute walk, almost convincing himself to the point of believing that Barton wouldn’t show. After all, maybe he’d found what he was looking for at the Library of Congress or gotten caught up in a conversation with a cute librarian.  There were plenty of reasons why he might skip out; Phil calculated at least eight by the time he reached the glass door and pulled it open, a waft of tomato sauce and pepperoni hitting his senses.

 

“Hey, Professor Coulson!”  Darcy at the hostess stand raised her head and smiled; she’d taken two of Phil’s classes so far and was thinking about adding a history minor. “Did you call? I don’t remember seeing your order.”

 

“Actually, I’m …” he began.

 

“Phil!” Clint waved a hand from a booth in the quiet back corner of the small place.

 

“Ah.” Darcy nodded. “So he bats for the other team. Too bad; those arms are to die for.”

 

“We’re not … he’s not…” Phil tripped over his tongue trying to explain.

 

“Right, of course, I see nothing.” Darcy winked.

 

Far too many seats were taken by people Phil knew; one downside to living near campus was running into students and colleagues everywhere.  He gave crisp nods to them as he wove through the smaller tables then slid into the banquet seat, happy to be tucked away from the rest of the patrons.

 

“Got done early and came on over,” Clint said, pushing a basket half full of chicken wings towards him.  “Glad I did; this place is pretty popular.”

 

“What can I get you to drink, Doc?” Their server was another of Phil’s students; he’d almost failed but pulled a C at the last minute by taking advantage of Phil’s revision policy. “You want the usual?”

 

“I’ll take a 3 Stars Southern Belle if you still have them,” he said before looking over at Clint. “How do you feel about pineapple on pizza?”

 

“Enthusiastic consent,” Clint replied with a grin. “Especially if it’s that aloha speciality on the menu.”

 

“One large aloha.” The server wrote on his pad. “And garlic knots with spicy marinara.”

 

“So, the usual?” Clint asked when the server retreated to the open kitchen.

 

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites.” Phil felt his cheeks grow warm; he could blame it on the heat from the wood fired oven. “I can swing by on the way home; I’m not much of a cook, really. I think my fridge has ketchup, beer and sriracha sauce at the moment.  Maybe almond milk. It keeps for a really long time.”

 

“If you can make it in one pot, I’m the king.” Clint picked up one of the wings and the bbq sauce oozed over his fingers. “But other than that, I’m hopeless. Tried to make dinner for a date one time; let me tell you, the neighbors get pissed off when the sprinklers turn on.”

 

Phil’s eyes travelled to Clint’s mouth as he ate a bite, chewing slowly. When he licked his lips and sucked the sauce off his fingers, Phil held himself still, praying his instant reaction would go unnoticed.

 

“I think I found something that will be of interest,” Phil said, changing the subject. The server appeared with a cold bottle of beer; Phil took a long swig before he continued. “Dug up a photo of Matonabbe.”

 

“Ooo. Tell me you have it with you!” Clint leaned forward, wing dangling forgotten in his hand. “When is it from?”

 

Waking his tablet, Phil clicked on file and the black and white image filled the screen. Peggy Carter was front and center, only a few strands of silver in her hair.  Howard Stark had an arm hung around her neck, his head leaning over her shoulder. Hank Pym on her other side, a frown maring his handsome face. Behind them, more people were circled, smiling at the camera.

 

“That’s Sam.” Clint pointed to a tall man with broad shoulders; he towered over the others. Dark hair was cut close, his shirt pulled across his chest. “And, oh my God, that must be Pixie! I thought that was an embellishment in the story.”

 

“Pixie?” Phil squinted at the tiny woman tucked safe in the crook of Matonabbe’s arm.  Vivid red hair spilled over her shoulders as she smiled up at the man who held her tight. “How did you learn about Matonabbe anyway?  All I could find was this photo and a few mentions of his presence at meetings.”

 

“Thank God for Robert’s rules of orders.” Clint chuckled. He leaned back and picked up his beer, taking a swig.  “One of the things about being a writer is that my office can be anywhere; I love traveling to new places and getting inspired by the stories I hear. Found myself in this little bar in Hendersonville, Tennessee, talking to a guy who grew up in one of those traveling circuses that his dad worked in.  He claimed there was this strong man who was a mutant, could take a bullet and not get a scratch; he used to hang around the freak show, listen to the guy spin tales about working with SHIELD and Peggy Carter. Said he had a tiny girl friend who went by the name Pixie and said she was over a thousand years old.”

 

“The circus?” Phil pushed up one sleeve then the other; the place was filling, only one empty table by the door. “That’s an interesting place to hide.”

 

“Right out in the open where no one would suspect. Constantly on the move,  stage names, easy to jump from one outfit to another.” Clint’s eyes flickered down to Phil’s forearms and then back up. “That’s what’s so fascinating about him. The red scare and the McCarthy hearings then superhero panels. What must it have been like, to have abilities and have to make the choice to register or take the inhibitor.”

 

“Carter resigned because of that decision to use the drugs;  she warned about the side effects, but no one listened,” Phil said. “So many tried to hide or slip out of the country; the commission hunted them down. Those they didn’t find, scared people turned in. We’ll probably never know how many of that generation were lost.”

 

“Yeah, I read your book on what happened to the Howling Commandos.” Clint sighed. “Then Korea and Vietnam? Sending so many supers into the war zone? No wonder HYDRA gained such a foothold. You should write a book on that, the criminalization of powers.”

 

“I’ve thought about it,” Phil said. “But the scope is so big; I’d want to research the shadow fighters too.  I’m fascinated by those who haven’t signed on with either side.”

 

“You want to interview Steve Rogers.” Clint grinned at him. “He does seem to show up in every one of your books.”

 

“He’s the focal point, the nexus, the first superhero whose face we saw on the news.  Because of Erskine’s experiment, powered people came into the spotlight. That Rogers chose to not become part of the Super Hero Intercession Enforcement and Leadership Division  shocked the whole community.”

 

“And he took a lion’s share of the blame for the HYDRA’s attempted take over right after,” Clint said. “I read this great book a while back; can’t remember the author, but the title was something like A Hero with A Mask? Maybe the Hero’s Mask?”

 

“Andrew Garner, _A Mask and A Hero_.  Great examination of the psychological tolls of maintaining separate identities,” Phil supplied.

 

“Yeah, that’s it. Most just use their code names, but not Rogers and Stark. They have it doubly hard since everyone knows their real names. How people line up outside Stark Tower to protest and throw things at Captain America.”  Clint huffed. “We can be such bastards to each other.”

 

“Here you go.” Their server put the hot pizza on the wrought iron stand. “Need another beer?”

 

“Bring me what he’s having and another for him,” Clint said. “And put this all on my tab, will you?”

 

“Sure,” the kid said.

 

“Hey, no,” Phil protested. “You don’t have to …”

 

“I asked you to dinner; I pay.” Clint grabbed the edge and slipped a piece on his plate. “I’m old fashioned that way.”

 

“We could go dutch.” Why he was still arguing, Phil wasn’t sure.

 

“We could, but we’re not.” Clint bit into the hot cheese and soft crust. “Nah eat yo pissa.”

 

He gave in and took a slice; the pineapple was tart, the ham salty, and the onions caramelized. Watching Clint chase a drop of grease that ran down his chin, Phil wondered if this was a date after all.  Or was Phil reading too much into it? Clint was a published author and probably made a lot more than Phil did. Maybe he was just being nice.

 

“So,” Clint said after a few minutes of thoughtful chewing.  “What’s your opinion on the New York nuke debacle? Senator Stern’s in charge of the investigation, isn’t he?”

 

“Press the flesh Larry?” Phil couldn’t keep the sneer from his voice. “He’s too busy chasing his aides to do much.  I suspect that’s why he was put in charge; nothing’s going to come of it and everyone knows it. The World Security Council’s got a full court press for their version of events.  My money’s on some poor SHIELD schlub taking the fall.”

 

They settled into conversation as they ate, moving from the superhero world to more mundane things like the cost of living in D.C. along with the traffic woes.  Phil got Clint to talk about his writing process and where he got the idea for his most successful novels. Clint encouraged Phil to wax poetic about the Howling Commandos, and, before Phil realized it, the clock clicked over to ten p.m.

 

“I’ve got to head out,” Clint said, sliding towards the edge of the banquet seat.  “I’m crashing at a friend’s and said I’d be back by eleven. She works the early shift tomorrow and hates leaving the door unlocked.”

 

“Of course.”  Phil got up too. “Tomorrow’s my office hours, and I’ve got a couple grad students coming by. I completely understand.”

 

They passed through the glass door, Darcy wishing them good night and winking at Phil behind Clint’s back.  Outside on the sidewalk, they paused.

 

“Where did you park?” Phil asked.

 

“Where are you parked?” Clint asked at the exact same time.

 

They laughed.

 

“I walked; I don’t live very far,” Phil told him.

 

“Oh, that must be nice. Get to go home for lunch if you want.” Clint nodded to his left. “I’m down that way and over one street.”

 

“Perfect, I’m headed that way.”

 

They began to stroll past the other businesses, the restaurants and coffee shops still brightly lit and the little two screen movie theater just letting out from a seven o’clock showing. Phil followed when Clint turned down Clover Street, keeping pace until he slowed by a 1970 Dodge Charger painted black with a purple stripe.

 

“Oh, tell me this is yours.” Phil ran a hand along a curve. “440 magnum or 426 Hemi?”

 

“Hemi.” Clint leaned against the driver’s side door. “Rebuilt the whole thing myself.  A project of love, you could say.”

 

“Well, it’s a gorgeous car.”  Phil smiled. “Muscles and all.”

 

“Yeah.” Clint’s eyes ran from the tip of Phil’s head down to his toes and back. “Muscles and all.”

 

Phil’s cheeks heated and his mouth went dry at the open look of interest in Clint’s eyes.

 

“So, I’m in town for at least a week, maybe more, depending upon how the research goes. Want to do this again? Dinner, conversation, a movie …” He tilted his head; the edges of his lips curled up in a seductive smile. “I’d like to see more of you.”

 

“I …” He cleared his throat. “I’d like that. Seeing more of you.”  

 

“Friday? I plan to spend all day tomorrow at the Library since it’s open late.  I heard about this great place not too far from here; you like Thai?”

 

“The spicier the better.” Phil froze as Clint took a step and closed the distance between them. “I’m done by two on Friday, so anytime after that.”

 

“I’ll text you.” Clint leaned in.  He smelled of garlic and beer and Phil’s stomach flipped as his lips bussed Phil’s cheek in the lightest of touches. “And here I thought this was going to be a quiet trip; never imagined I’d run into a sexy professor who likes pineapple on his pizza.”

 

Unable to think of a single word to say, Phil watched Clint open the door and slide behind the wheel. The engine revved to life and Phil stepped back, responding to Clint’s wave with his own.  He stood until the car disappeared around the corner.

 

“Good God, it’s like I’ve never been on a date before,” he mumbled to himself as he started walking.  The whole way back, he replayed the evening’s conversation, lingering on each moment he deemed awkward and second-guessing himself.  Clint was good-looking, funny, downright sexy, the type of guy Phil usually thought out-of-his-league. Maybe, he thought, this time was different.

 

By the time he’d brushed his teeth,  put on his favorite grey pajama bottoms and slid beneath the covers, Phil had talked himself into being excited about Friday, maybe even asking Melinda for help with his wardrobe and getting a quick trim. He’d have time on Thursday if he called ahead.

 

Just as he drifted off, an insistent buzzing jolted him awake. He thumbed the implant behind his ear before his feet hit the floor.

 

“Agent 42.” Two steps and he opened the closet, turning the hook that opened the elevator, punching the only other button to descend. “Sitrep?”

 

“Crossbones and his team have taken hostages at the Air and Space Museum’s Gala. Command Center is just outside; what’s your ETA?” The computerized voice sounded hollow as it reverberated in his head.

 

“Twenty minutes.” He was moving as soon as the door opened, running his hand under the scanner to deactivate his lockdown chip. “Unless they’re still doing night construction on the 14th Street Bridge.”

 

“A lane will be cleared for you. Check in with Team Leader for further instructions.”

 

Donning the tactical suit clocked in just under 90 seconds now that he’d changed the lace up boots for ones with zippers; he couldn’t remember why he resisted for so long other than aesthetics.  The new navy blue ones had arch support and were completely waterproof; he didn’t miss wet feet at all. And ever since he’d talked them out of a one piece, slipping on the navy pants and grey shirt, all slim tenth generation kevlar was much simpler as was taking off the outfit.  His favorite piece was the leather jacket, a cross zip with a collar that protected his neck and a fitted hood of the same material as his shirt. Grabbing the custom made mask that covered his whole face, he slung a leg over his motorcycle, lifted the kickstand and started the engine.  

 

Access to unused subway tunnels had been granted to SHIELD in the 70s; finding a house on top of one of the old spurs made for quiet exits in the middle of the night  Roaring along the boarded over rails, Phil took the ramp up a set of stairs and then out a side passage, emerging in a wooded park, close to an old warehouse. In five minutes, he was driving over the bridge, weaving through construction as workers waved him through.

 

Phil never imagined he’d be signing the accords and joining SHIELD. No, he’d always thought he was one of the normal ones, a muggle in Harry Potter parlance, meant to spend his life studying and writing about true heroes like Steve Rogers or Tony Stark.  But fate had other plans for the Army Ranger from Wisconsin; an exploding building in Afghanistan held more than just weapons when Phil had plunged in the smoke to try and rescue two of his platoon. They didn’t survive and Phil woke up laying on the ground, ignored by everyone around him until he spoke directly to his commanding officer. The military takes powered individuals very seriously; within a week, Phil was in a hospital in Bethesda, being evaluated, his record already opened by efficient government workers.  

 

He zipped past the Jefferson Memorial and saw the flashing lights of police cars ahead, blocking access to Independence Avenue.  The sidewalk was the best way around; the four cops didn’t even blink as he passed just a few feet away from them. Even when he cut through the concrete barriers erected after 9/11, no one gave him a second glance.  Only when he stopped by the phalanx of black Suburbians, got off and strolled towards the gathering of agents did War Machine wave.

 

“You made good time,” he said, handing Phil a tablet. “We’ve got them cordoned off in the west end, upper floor, but they’ve got hostages.”

 

“He asked for Rogers yet?” Phil’s voice filtered through his mask, just as distorted as War Machine’s.  “He’s going to make this about Cap again. The controversy over the World War II exhibit is still a top news story. A lot of people in there paid money to be on one side or the other.” Phil tapped a file and began to scroll through the list. “He’ll pick a donor with the most connection to … Got it. Sharon Carter, niece of Peggy Carter. That’s who he’ll bargain with.”

 

“On top of it, as always.” War Machine turned to the SHIELD agents. “Get me everything you can on Sharon Carter, stat.”

 

As agents scurried around him, Phil flipped through pages of information, eyes roving over every detail.  Words and numbers jumped out at him, the Smithsonian map turning sideways as he rotated the screen. The area Crossbones and his men were in housed the World War II exhibits; the windows looked out upon the Hirshhorn Museum and the Castle spires beyond.  

The dates of the Captain America exhibit Phil almost tossed out … it wasn’t due to open for another three months … but then he opened a window and checked the Hirshorn schedule then the African American Museum, the Castle, the …it

 

“Huh.” He enlarged the map until the name of the Arts and Industry Building appeared; closed to the public, it was the second oldest building of the Smithsonian and was undergoing renovation.  It also served as a storage for items not currently out for public view including some due to be part of Cap’s exhibit.

 

“Got something?” War Machine asked.  “You’re hunches are usually spot on.”

 

“Maybe.” He passed the tablet to a junior agent.  “I’m going to check it out. Let me know if you need me back here.”

 

Weaving through the crowd of police, FBI, and SHIELD personnel, he passed through the barricade and the people gathered just beyond without a flicker of interest. Once in the clear, he jogged to the large red brick building with dark windows, circling until he found a single door by the air conditioning units, hidden by shrubbery.  A small emp disc took out the security and he picked the lock with ease, unconcerned about any cameras pointed his way.

 

Once inside, he did a sweep, starting with the nearest pavilion, along the range and through the courts and halls. The high ceilings let in enough light to pick his way around construction scaffolding and debris.  He paused in the rotunda, gaze drawn to the empty pedestal in the center; a flicker of light reflected off the plastered lip of the fountain, a reflection off a piece of white canvas. Backtracking, Phil found a small set of stairs, obscured by boxes of tiles.

 

Quietly, he went down, jacking up his senses. A scuff of a boot, another flicker, a silent basement filled with uneven stacks covered by foggy plastic … Phil paused at the last step, raised his hand and pushed his power further before he started to slowly circle the outer walls. Most of what he saw could be part of the building facelift, but he saw a few older file cabinets in a far corner along with some odd pieces of furniture.  Halfway around, he caught a tell tale sweep across the dusty floor. A tiny discoloration on the wall and a running crack mightbe …

 

He got halfway around before the edge of the sword sliced through his collar and came to rest just below his chin. The sharp steel chilled his skin, and Phil exhaled, calming his racing nerves.

 

“Well, well.” The sword rotated slightly and a gloved hand came into view, followed by an arm and then a body.  Black edged with gold suit, cowl pulled up and face hidden behind a molded mask. “Grey Force. Nice little trick you’ve got there; I almost missed you.”

 

“Most people would.” Phil’s brain bounced through facts and data, putting together the pieces. “But little escapes you, doesn’t it, Ronin?”

 

“Ah, always good to be recognized.” He tilted his head.  “So, tell me, do you know about Pierce’s little caches or did you just come here on one of your famous hunches?”

 

“Director Pierce’s secret storage rooms are an urban myth. No storage rooms full of Nazi gold.” He dragged everything he knew about Ronin out of his memory.  A master swordsman, Ronin was the third most wanted of the shadow heroes, just behind Steve Rogers and Black Widow. Assassin, thief, it was rumored he had enhanced sight and impossibly fast reflexes. What was known was that he always finished his jobs and let nothing … or  no one … get in his way. “I didn’t take you for a treasure hunter.”

 

“Wouldn’t say no to a chest or two for the retirement fund.” He chuckled, a strange sound to hear from a man holding a sword to Phil’s throat. “Nice move, the whole ‘just a story’ thing. Never let it be said that Pierce isn’t good at his job. A bastard and a half, but efficient.”

 

The disturbed dust, the mark on the wall, Ronin’s reputation … “Since you’ve already got what you came for, I don’t suppose you’d consider handing it over so we can go our separate ways?”

 

This time, Ronin gave a full-throated laugh. “A sense of humor as well as a nice ass.”

 

“It was worth a try.” Phil almost shrugged then remember the sharp blade. “I like to give people options; I’m really a pacifist at heart.”

 

“Options.” Ronin took a step to the left. “How about this? I ask a question. If you answer it truthfully, I won’t slit your throat.”

 

“I like the last part of that deal.” Phil shifted and the sword followed. “Ask away.”

 

“Did you know about the vault? Or was coming here one of your lucky guesses?”

 

He thought about his answer, what Ronin was expecting to hear, and why he asked.  SHIELD had many boltholes and storage areas, scattered around the world; that one was here in the basement of a Smithsonian building wasn’t surprising.  “I didn’t know specifically,” Phil finally settled on saying. “Just that Crossbones makes a whole lot of noise; it’s a perfect time to slip in and out unnoticed.”

 

“You’d know a lot about that,” Ronin said. “A bit of advice.  Don’t trust Pierce; he’s not what he seems.”

 

“And what do you base your  …”

 

The whole building rattled, the concrete shaking beneath their feet.  Stacks of boxes toppled over and paint cans crashed, spilling their contents on the floor. Phil used the motion to rock backwards, tumbling over sawhorses and landing on his feet.

 

“What the fuck?” Ronin’s head jerked up as a light began flashing, long thin line on the floor from where the wall had parted, secret door jarred open.

 

Phil forgot about the swords and grabbed Ronin by the sleeve. “Fail safe protocol. We’ve got to get out.”

 

They ran for the stairs, Ronin in the lead, taking them two at a time; Phil was only halfway up when the blast blew him off his feet and into the other man’s back. The world spun and filled with dust; Phil’s eyelashes were coated in the stuff and it clogged his mouth filter. Air rushed out of his lung as he fell hard; gasping for breath, he dragged in nothing but chalky white concrete particles. Ripping off the bottom of his mask, he sucked in fresh air as he leaned into the strong hands that pulled him up, an arm going around his waist.

 

“.... not stable … out of the radius ...”

 

He coughed but couldn’t clear his throat. His heart pounded hard in his chest, ears ringing; they burst out into the main floor, a gust of hot, dusty air chasing them. Just as he gained his footing, a second rumble and the nearest scaffold tilted, toppling over towards them.

 

“Watch out!” He shoved Ronin out of the way.  The edge of one of the metal poles slammed into his shoulder, the pain so intense he faltered and almost went down. Only a pair of strong hands yanking his other arm kept him from being crushed.

 

“Phil! Come on!” A voice shouted and he tried to focus. “The whole damn place is coming down.”

 

They ran, Phil predicting when to dodge and change direction. Finally he burst out the front door, stumbled onto the grass and managed to get cool air in his lungs. Only then did he look up and see the shattered end of the Air and Space Museum, a ragged opening of twisted steel and blown glass.

 

“Fuck.” Pain forgotten, Phil strapped his mask back on. “Fucking bastard.”

 

No one answered; Phil glanced around. Ronin was gone.

 

“Just my luck,” he groused, breaking into a run. “Finally meet someone and this is what I get.”

 

For the next few hours, Phil systematically set about saving as many as he could, judging the instability of what was left of the floors and pulling bodies out just in time. He pushed past the exhaustion, ignored his aching shoulder, and kept going until the last survivor was in an ambulance and the fire was smoldering embers.  Even then, he left under his own power, fading into the flow of traffic and all but disappearing as he made his way home. Before he gave himself over to sleep, he took some painkillers and ate a protein bar. After a quick email to Melinda to put a sign on his door, he showered, lowered the blackout shades, and crawled in bed.

 

Phil slept through messages from the university; with so many downtown roads cordoned off and the metro running on an emergency only route, commuters were encouraged to stay home. By the time he rolled out of bed, his shoulder aching and covered in darkening bruises, it was close to dinner time. With little in the fridge, he took down the take out menus and started to rifle through them just as the doorbell rang.

 

“Got a delivery for Phil Coulson?” The woman squinted at her phone, pushed a straggling piece of red hair behind her ear then smiled at him. “Got to say I’m glad to take this one; not often we get a surprise order like this.”

 

“I don’t …” Phil saw the name on the bag and recognized the smell of curry. “You’re from Bangkok 54.”

 

“Yep. Got some chicken panang, pad cha from the sea, drunken noodles, and fresh na’an.” She gave the bag to Phil.  “Guy who placed the order said to say he’s sorry he can’t make it tomorrow night … something about work getting in the way … and to also give you this.” She held out a simple white letter envelope; it was fat and bumpy in Phil’s hand. “Dude, someone sends you this kind of apology for breaking a date, he’s a keeper. Even did it before hand.”

 

Without another word, she headed back to her beat up Corolla.  Taking the food in the house, he deposited it on the counter then carried the envelope into the bathroom, tapping the privacy screen before he put the toilet lid down and took a seat.  Opening it up, a sheaf of papers unfolded and a royal blue USB drive dropped into his hand.

 

Thanks for the help, read the first of two lines of typed letters. I’ll send you a signed copy when the book comes out.

 

Turning the drive between his fingers, Phil stared at the Georgetown seal on the plastic, one of the free giveaways that admission liked to pass out to visitors. He knew the one he’d given Clint was black, not blue. Tucking it in the breast pocket of his button up, he flushed the toilet, washed his hands, took the opened letter with him,  and headed in to eat dinner.

 

Not only did Ronin aka Clint Barton know who he was, but now he was sharing information?

 

As he spooned a bit of each dish onto a paper plate and got a bottle of water, he weighed the pros and cons of opening the drive.  He might be on SHIELD’s payroll, but he had no illusions that any government run institution wasn’t filled with waste and fraud. Hell, he’d written books on the dark side of superhero history, the forced drugging, finder squads, and indoctrination stations. They might have chip technology now to shut down powers, but there were kids not yet grown who rejected the implant and  had to face other options with worse side effects. Charles Xavier could argue all he wanted for mainstreaming of those with minor skills, but there were too many politicians who ginned up votes by playing to people’s fears. Phil knew about prisons like the Fridge and the Raft, had interviewed Secretary Ross about his decades long hunt for the Hulk, and heard rumors of conversion therapies in dark basements.

 

When they’d put the paperwork in front of him, still in a hospital bed with a broken leg in traction, he hadn’t been a young man but a seasoned soldier with a realistic view of how the world worked.  He’d signed not because he believed SHIELD was perfect with a goal of helping keep the world safe, but because he thought it was the most effective way for him to continue serving his country. He knew the system was filled with good people and bad ones, those who wanted to do good and those in it for their own gain.  

 

After he packed the leftovers away in the refrigerator, he went to his office and flipped open his laptop.  Settling in his chair, he pulled up the history papers that still needed grading; palming the drive, he mixed it in with the others students had handed in, piled on his desk. Attaching his rubric, he worked through two papers from his mailbox, his favorite jazz channel on spotify streaming.  Then he started with a pink plastic drive, shifting the paper into his network folder, randomly picking it out of the pile. He didn’t look as he went one-by-one, letting his fingers pick and slip them in the port. Only when he felt the seal did he hit the right sequence of keystrokes to start the shadow system and virus protection; the files opened in a small window in the lower corner while a fake paper came up on the screen.

 

Phil had no qualms about hiding things from his handlers; in fact, he used a next generation Stark jammer and black market security system in his home.  Didn’t mean that SHIELD didn’t have its bugs and ways into Phil’s electronics, just that he would know when they did. That’s why he’d used a contact to find a guy in Nashville who set up ways to avoid intrusion on his laptop.

 

Two files, that’s all there were, each neatly labelled. Project Insight and Read Me. He chuckled at Clint’s obviousness then sobered at the thought he probably shouldn’t be thinking of Ronin by his first name.  Only one document was in Read Me; to be extra safe, he ran another check for nasty surprises then opened it.

 

_Phil,_

 

_So, this is awkward.  Not sure what to say; almost killing someone after a first date is new to me. I’m just going to let it go and move on, like my therapist says.  Never worked before, but, hey, there’s always a chance it’ll work. I mean, honestly, sexy prof Phil is a perfect fit for perfect ass Grey Force. Can’t believe I didn’t figure that one out, eh? Anyway, these are for Phil Coulson the historian. I’ve read all your books and I know you see  both sides of the picture; do with it as you think best._

 

_For the record, I didn’t know and I’m glad.  Sorry I had to cancel but I’m sure you know why.  They watch everyone and, eventually, they’d figure it out too. Can’t take that chance.  Wish I’d done more than give you a peck on the cheek; here I was being all slow and romantic. That’ll teach me._

_Keep yourself safe; people have died for knowing what’s in these files. At least I know you can kick some ass if they come after you. Don’t trust anyone, not even me. I’m a bad guy… but Pierce is something much worse._

 

_CB_

 

He reread it twice before he erased it with a bleach program. Without hesitation, he clicked on Project Insight, the window filling with multiple files with names like Lemurian Star, STRIKE, Paperclip, Armin Zola, and Camp Lehigh. But it was the one named Stephen Grant Rogers that Phil opened first, the familiar bubble of excitement as he began a new project.  

 

Whatever this was about, Phil was going to do what he did best.

 

Find the truth.

  


**Author's Note:**

> There really is a grey force in Star Wars; the jedi who are grey do not believe that all emotion is bad and that anger is always the way to the dark side. Of course, Phil being a big Star Wars nerd would pick a name for himself like that. Also, thanks to everyone who helped come up with the name and Phil's superpowers. To be clear, Phil can go unnoticed, a "somebody else's problem" field like in Douglas Adams writes about. He's not invisible, it's just that people's eyes slide over him. And he can make connections really fast, i.e. jump from Crossbones to Steve to Sharon to a building nearby in logical leaps that don't make sense to others. 
> 
> There will be more of these. I've got three mapped out in my head. But I'm trying to make time to work on my original novel so I'm doing them one shot at time instead of a long string of stories. Easier to pop one on the front burner when I have time. :)


End file.
